Justin Cronin - The Passage

In the locker room he changed quickly, shoved his scrubs in the laundry bin, and rode the elevator up to L3. Davis was still there, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, reading a magazine, his boots bobbing to some song playing on little earphones tucked in the sides of his head.

“You know, I don’t know why I even look at this stuff anymore,” Davis said loudly over the music. “What’s the point? I’m never getting off this iceball.”

Davis dropped his feet to the floor and held up the cover of the magazine for Grey to see: two naked women in a winding embrace, their mouths open and the tips of their tongues just touching. The magazine was called Hoteez . Their tongues looked to Grey like slabs of muscle, something you’d put on ice in a deli case. The sight sent a fresh current of nausea churning through him.

“Oh, that’s right,” Davis said when he saw Grey’s expression. He plucked the buds from his ears. “You guys don’t like this stuff. Sorry.” Davis sat forward and wrinkled his nose. “Man, you stink. What is that?”

“I think I ate something bad,” Grey said cautiously. “I gotta go lie down for a while.”

Davis flinched with alarm; he pushed away from the desk, widening the gap between them. “Don’t fucking say that.”

“I swear that’s all it is.”

“Jesus Christ, Grey.” The soldier’s eyes were wide with panic. “What are you trying to do to me? You got a fever or anything?”

“I just tossed is all. In the can. I think maybe I ate too much. I just need to get off my feet for a bit.”

Davis took a second to think, eyeing Grey nervously. “Well, I’ve seen you eat, Grey. All you guys. You shouldn’t shovel it in like that. And you don’t look so hot, I’ll say that. No offense, but you look like crap. I really should call this in.”

They’d have to seal the level, Grey knew. That meant Davis would be stuck down here, too. As for what would happen to him, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it. He wasn’t really sick, he knew that much. But there was something wrong with him. He’d had bad dreams before, but nothing that ever made him puke.

“You’re sure?” Davis pressed. “I mean, you’d tell me if there was something really wrong with you?”

Grey nodded. A drop of sweat slithered the length of his torso.

“Man, what a fucking day.” Davis sighed resignedly. “All right, hang on.” He tossed Grey the elevator key and freed his com from his belt. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, okay?” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is the sentry on three? We need a relief worker-”

But Grey didn’t stay to listen. He was already in the elevator, gone.

Somewhere west of the town of Randall, Oklahoma, a few miles south of the Kansas border, Wolgast decided to surrender.

They were parked inside a car wash, off a rural blacktop the number of which he’d long forgotten. It was almost dawn; Amy was fast asleep, curled like a cub on the backseat of the Tahoe. Three hours of driving hard and fast, Doyle calling out a route he quickly assembled off the GPS, a line of lights flashing in the distance behind them, sometimes fading when they made a turn but always reassembling, picking up their trail. It was just after two A.M. when Wolgast had seen the car wash. He took a chance and pulled in. They’d sat in the dark and listened to the cruisers fly past.

“How long do you think we should wait?” Doyle asked. All his bluster had left him.

“A while,” Wolgast said. “Let them put some distance between us.”

“That’ll just give them time to set up roadblocks at the state line. Or double back when they realize they’ve lost us.”

“You have a better idea I’d like to hear it,” Wolgast said.

Doyle thought a moment. The big scrub brushes hanging over the windshield made the space in the car seem closer. “Not really, no.”

So they’d sat. At any second Wolgast expected the car wash to blaze with light, to hear the amplified voice of a state cop telling them to come out with their hands up. But this hadn’t happened. They had a signal now, but it was analog and wouldn’t encrypt, so there was no way to tell anyone where they were.

“Listen,” Doyle said. “I’m sorry about what happened back there.”

Wolgast was too tired to engage. The fair seemed like days ago. “Forget about it.”

“You know, the thing is, I really liked my job. The Bureau, all of it. It’s all I ever wanted to do.” Doyle took a deep breath and fingered a bead of condensation on the passenger window. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know.”

Doyle frowned acidly. “Yeah you do. That guy, Richards. You were right about him.”

The windows of the car wash had begun to pale. Wolgast checked his watch; it was a little before six. They’d waited as long as they could. He turned the key to the Tahoe and backed out of the car wash.

Amy awoke then. She sat upright and rubbed her eyes, looking about. “I’m hungry,” she announced.

Wolgast turned to Doyle. “How about it?”

Doyle hesitated; Wolgast could see the idea taking shape in his mind. He knew what he was really saying: it’s over.

“Might as well.”

Wolgast turned the Tahoe around and headed back in the direction they’d come, into the town of Randall. The main thoroughfare didn’t amount to much, not more than a half dozen blocks long. An air of abandonment hung over the street; most of the windows were papered over or smeared with soap. Probably there was a Walmart not far away, Wolgast thought, or some other big store like that, the kind that wiped little towns like Randall right off the map. At the end of the block, a square of light spilled onto the sidewalk; a half dozen pickups were angled at the curb.

“Breakfast,” he declared.

The restaurant was a single, narrow room with a drop ceiling stained by years of cigarette smoke and airborne grease. A long counter stood to one side, facing a line of padded, high-backed booths. The air smelled of boiled coffee and fried butter. A few men in jeans and workshirts were seated at the counter, their broad backs hunched over plates of eggs and cups of coffee. The three of them took a booth in the back. The waitress, a middle-aged woman, broad across the middle and with clear gray eyes, brought over coffee and menus.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?”

Doyle said he wasn’t hungry and would stick to coffee. Wolgast looked up at the woman, who was wearing a name tag: LUANNE. “What’s good, Luanne?”

“It’s all good if you’re hungry.” She smiled noncommittally. “The grits aren’t bad.”

Wolgast nodded and passed his menu to her. “Sounds fine.”

The woman looked at Amy. “For the little one? Whatcha want, honey?”

Amy lifted her eyes from the menu. “Pancakes?”

“And a glass of milk,” Wolgast added.

“Coming right up,” the woman said. “You’ll like ’em, honey. Cook does them up special.”

Amy had brought her backpack into the restaurant. Wolgast walked her back to the ladies’ room to clean up. “You need me to come in with you?”

Amy shook her head.

“Wash your face and brush your teeth,” he said. “And comb your hair, too.”

“Are we still going to the doctor?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll see.”

Wolgast returned to the table. “Listen,” he said quietly to Doyle. “I don’t want to drive into a roadblock. Something could go wrong.”

Doyle nodded. The meaning was plain. All that firepower, anything could happen. Next thing you knew, the Tahoe was riddled with rounds and everyone was dead.

“What about the district office in Wichita?”